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A look of comprehension passed through Pete’s wise brown eyes. “Burns are pretty gory sometimes. I don’t like them either.”

“How does that work for you?”

“It doesn’t,” he said with a wry grin. “Sometimes you’ve just got to do stuff you hate.”

It was a sentiment I knew all too well.

Jane reappeared just a few moments later with the tetanus shot in her hand. I felt Pete’s eyes on me, but this time I didn’t hesitate to raise my uninjured arm when she stepped forward.

The needle was about to pierce my skin when Pete suddenly stopped her. “Can you put it in his other arm? He’s left-handed.”

I stared quizzically at him as Jane nodded agreeably and moved back to my other arm. “It’ll be sore later,” he explained. “You still have to work today.”

Oh.

With the nausea from earlier gone, I watched the needle go in and the plunger release its contents into my body. It didn’t hurt, but my blood felt chilled for a moment, like it wasn’t my own. That was weird. In rehab I’d met addicts who’d inject themselves with just about anything, but having a shot was a new experience for me, and I didn’t like it.

Jane taped a pad over the puncture hole and rubbed my shoulder. “All done,” she said. “Keep it clean and dry and come back if you have any problems. Otherwise, Pete can take the stitches out in ten days.”

I looked at him. “You can do that?”

“Sure.”

I wrote my name on a final bit of paper, and we were all done. I slid from the bed and Pete glanced at his watch.

“See?” he said. “In and out of the ER in thirty minutes. You don’t see that every day.”

I’d have to take his word for that.

I
MADE
my sitting in one piece, and it was good, really good. One of the best I’d ever done. The design I etched on the back of the young stoner kid was also the biggest custom piece I’d ever had commissioned. Until the night before, I’d been nervous as hell, but cutting my hand, sleeping in Pete’s bed, and the trip to the hospital had distracted me and left me no time to get agitated. Once I’d set up my tools and gotten myself together, I put my head down and got on with the job. It was over before I could blink.

That was kinda typical for me. Whenever I drew, whether with a gun or a pencil, I seemed to forget where I was. It was an escape, even when I was just a kid and scribbling on the bunk bed above me. On the street, I could waste a whole day scrawling on the sidewalk. I wouldn’t notice anyone watching until I sat back on my heels and saw a pile of coins on the ground beside me. My life was different these days, but some things never changed.

I didn’t notice Ted watching me until I was finished; he hadn’t been there when I started. His heavy footsteps came up behind me. I stepped around the chair my client had just vacated, tripping over my own feet, and reached over the back to zip my bag.

“That was good work,” he said, ignoring my impression of a skittering cat. “You had me a little worried when I saw you all trussed up.” He nodded at my bandaged hand. “Everything okay?”

I’d pretty much forgotten about my messed-up hand while I was working, but it had started to throb the moment I was done, just like Pete had warned me it would. I held it up and peered at it. It hurt, a lot. “Yeah, I just cut myself last night. It’s fine.”

Ted shrugged easily. “Shit happens. It didn’t affect your work. I’m impressed… really impressed. I’ve got to split, but I’ll check back with you next week when we go over those catalogue pieces. Good work, Ash. Well done.”

I thanked him, but he was already walking away. It didn’t matter, though—his words were enough. Ted didn’t waste his time saying stuff he didn’t mean, and despite the ache in my arm and the lingering disquiet from the night before, I walked home with the barest hint of a smile on my face.

Pete was out when I got back to the apartment, and we didn’t link up until the following day, when I came home to find him on the couch eating takeout. He waved a fork at me in greeting.

“Come eat,” he said. “How’s the hand? Sore?”

I slid over the arm onto the couch and peered into the containers on the coffee table. The sharp pain in my palm was exacerbating the dull ache in my shoulder from the tetanus shot, but I didn’t want to complain. “It’s not so bad.”

Pete snorted. “Whatever. You look fucked. Here, take two of these and eat up.”

I took the pill bottle and studied it warily. “What are they?”

“Advil,” he said. “Ibuprofen? They’re anti-inflammatory.”

“Anti what? Is that like Tylenol?” I remembered that from when I had flu in rehab. It was the only drug they’d give out, and after five years of benzos and heroin, it didn’t do shit.

“Similar.”

I bit my lip and eyed the bottle. I had two choices: Ask him outright, or just leave the pills. Either way, I’d have to explain myself. I took a deep breath. “Um, is it, like, an opiate?”

He didn’t even blink. “No. It’s just an over-the-counter pain med.”

I relaxed slightly, opened the bottle, and shook out two pills. I reached for Pete’s beer to chase them down, but he stopped me with a lightning-fast snap of his hand.

“Drugs and booze don’t mix. Go get some water.”

I rolled my eyes, but I got up anyway. He had his sensible face on, and after the last few days I knew better than to argue.

After we ate, I decided to take a shower, and came back into the living room half an hour later to find him still on the couch. He looked really tired, slouched down with his eyes half-shut. I considered leaving him to it, but he sat up when he saw me coming and gestured for me to show him my hand.

I sat on the coffee table and extended my arm. I stared at the floor while he unwrapped the bandages and poked about. I didn’t want to see the wound again, and with his hands on my skin I was thoroughly distracted. His hands were warm and smooth, but his touch made me shiver… a strange shiver so intense it was almost painful. I jammed my teeth into my bottom lip, the only thing that stopped me from moaning out loud.

Pete lowered my arm when he was done, but he didn’t release it from his grip. “Try not to flex it too much.”

“Uh-huh,” I said absently.

“What were you using to cut yourself so bad?”

His question caught me off guard. Up until now, he hadn’t asked me any questions—he’d just babysat me and gotten me fixed up. I pulled my hand away from him. “A craft knife. I was working on something for the shop and my hand slipped.”

He nodded slowly and dropped his hand to his lap. “And the cigarette burn?”

I didn’t have an answer and my silence spoke volumes. An image of my scorched palm suddenly appeared in my mind, and it was all I could do not to gag. I looked away as I tried to think of a plausible explanation. None came, and nausea rolled as I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. I wanted to run, but just as my courage deserted me, he let out an abrupt whoosh of air.

“I need to tell you something.”

I tore my gaze from the floor and forced myself to meet his gaze. I knew what was coming. “You want me to leave.”

My voice was flat. It wasn’t really a question, but Pete looked startled. “What? Why would you think that?”

I didn’t say anything. To me it was obvious. He had a full-time job and a life of his own. Why would he want to come home to a blood-covered freak every night?

Pete shook his head. “It’s not that. This isn’t about you. It’s about me; something I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

His uncharacteristic, careful tact made me nervous. I’d never seen him speak so cautiously before. I gestured for him to continue, perturbed, and more than slightly alarmed.

He let out another breath, clearly measuring his words. “I don’t know where you sit on stuff like sexuality, but because of what happened last night, you need to know. I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“Sexuality?”

“Yeah.” His gaze grew harder as he misread my hollow response as something else. “I know I should’ve told you before now, but I’m not straight. As in, I’m into men.”

There was a pause. Then, stupidly, I said the first thing that came into my head. “So?”

Pete narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “That doesn’t bother you?”

I shook my head slightly and tried to get my head around the fact that he was gay. It didn’t make any sense. I’d seen him with a chick just a few weeks ago, and they’d been all over each other. There was no
way
they were just friends. “Why would it bother me?”

“Some people don’t like it. They think I’m greedy because I swing both ways.”

And just like that, the headache-inducing riddle evaporated and left me astounded. I laughed for what felt like the first time in days. “Best of both worlds, huh? You like men and women?”

“Something like that. Just don’t call me bisexual. I hate that damn word; it sounds like a fucking disease.”

I was dizzy from the abrupt change in mood, but I got his point. Those labels held too much power, like you were marked for life by a tiny little word, frozen within the restrictions of an umbrella you’d stood under too soon. Gay, straight, bi… what the hell did they even mean? Why couldn’t I just be me?

Pete eyed me warily. “You’re sure you’re okay with it? I should’ve told you before you moved in. I just, I don’t know, man, I just didn’t really consider it, and I should have. I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, I get it.”

His face betrayed his surprise. Somehow, I knew his mind was racing to figure out if the sudden enlightenment he felt was correct. “Really?”

I raised my arms above my head and winced at the soreness in my shoulder muscles. “I didn’t see it in you either,” I said by way of an answer. “I can spot a gay guy a mile off, though. Maybe it’s not so obvious when it’s undefined.”

Pete shrugged. “Maybe. Guess it doesn’t really matter. We’re cool, right?”

“We’re cool,” I agreed, though inside I was once again reeling. It had never,
ever
occurred to me that Pete was like me, even when Ellie suggested it. Knowing that he was stirred something in me, something I’d never felt before. Acceptance, maybe? I couldn’t figure it out.

Pete got to his feet and stretched. “I’ve got to crash. I’m working at six.” He moved toward the door, but he stopped halfway and turned back. “Hey, Ash?”

I looked up from the sketch pad I’d dazedly retrieved from under the couch. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

I nodded absently, ignoring the same searching look he’d given me at the hospital. “Yeah, I’m sorry about last night. It’s just that room… I can’t sleep in there sometimes.”

Pete eyed the sketchbook in my hand. “Maybe it’s because you work in there. You can’t disconnect.”

“Maybe,” I echoed. I knew it wasn’t, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d talked enough for one night.

“Anyway….” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You can crash in my room whenever you want. It’s cool, there’s plenty of room. Just come and get in.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out, and he was gone by the time I figured out I had nothing to say.

That night, I lasted three hours before I gave in. By then, my hand was killing me, and I was so tired I barely remember slipping across the hall and crawling into his bed. Over the nights that followed, the time I waited became less and less.

The nights Pete wasn’t home, I just didn’t sleep. No big deal, I was used to that, but the dreamless oblivion I experienced in his bed when he
was
there brought new problems all its own. My body now knew what it was missing, and it made the sleepless nights even harder to cope with. I thought I covered it well, but Pete wasn’t fooled. A few weeks after the first night we’d slept side by side, he rolled over in bed to face me. It startled me. He’d appeared asleep when I’d crept in beside him.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” he said into the darkness. “At night, I mean. Just come to bed when you’re tired. You need to sleep.”

I rolled onto my back, feeling his eyes boring into me as I asked the question I’d come to realize I couldn’t ask to his face. “What if you bring someone home?”

He sighed and the bed shifted. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I like you.” He moved again, mirroring my position and staring at the ceiling. “I like you, and I want you to feel better.”

I turned my head to face him. Pete was wise. Sometimes he seemed far older than his twenty-four years. How could he not know that lying in bed with him was the best I’d ever felt?

T
HE
knocking on the front door was light but insistent. Next to me, Pete groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. I took the hint and slid quickly from the bed to answer the door. I wasn’t sure what time he’d come home, but I’d become used to his strange hours and long shifts. After a few days of pointless procrastinating, I’d started sleeping in his bed when he wasn’t there. The first night I fell asleep with the TV on, convinced I’d wake up the moment he came home. I didn’t. I woke up in the morning to find him stretched out beside me, like he’d been there all along.

In the weeks that followed, I’d never slept so well. One night, he even managed to remove the stitches from my hand while I was sleeping. I didn’t feel a thing. The situation was surreal, but at the same time it felt strangely right. It was all too easy to push the complications aside, because life with Pete had become as normal as anything ever was for me. It felt almost routine now to slide out of his bed and pad through his apartment to answer his door.

The knocking grew louder as I got closer and increased in attitude with every tap. Annoyed, I shot the deadbolts across and yanked it open. Ellie’s amused smile greeted me.

“Finally. Have you lost your cell phone?”

I stepped aside as she breezed past me. “What?”

“Your cell phone,” she repeated, appraising me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve been calling you since yesterday.”

That was news to me, but I couldn’t quite remember when I’d last seen my phone. “It’s not lost. I just don’t know where it is.” I eyed the shopping bags in her hands. “What the fuck is all that?”